we should have pottered about half the day, but ours is a hard
procession to manage. Besides, Ed Caspian hates to have Pat interested
in things, because then he's obliged to get out and look at them with
her, or risk her in Peter's society. This danger he runs only when he
can't run himself. He is so proud of his well-shaped feet that he has
his boots made too small, and if the weather is warm it's a real penance
for him to walk far. There's really something _pathetic_ about this, or
would be were Caspian only a little less bumptious than he is, for if
gossip tells the truth, the millionaire of to-day was once one of those
sterling socialists who began their career to fame walking the king's
highway with bare feet and their spare clothes tied up in their one
handkerchief. (How awkward if they had a cold in the head!)
After all the fuss he made about "wasted time," we arrived early at New
London, where we planned to spend the night. Something happened there,
but I haven't come to that yet. First, I must tell you just a little
about the dazzling beauty of the way! I should like to tell you a lot,
and force you to stop at every place en route. Easthaven, with trees and
a church steeple which almost succeed in reaching heaven; Branford,
where Yale College was founded, and where there are the very nicest
seventeenth century houses you ever saw--_fighting_ houses with
overhanging upper stories where you could look down through holes in the
floor and pot at Indians trying to break in; Guilford, prettiest of all
the villages on Jack's list of places where he'd like to live (we almost
envied Fitz Greene Halleck, the poet, for being born there); Clinton,
with its parklike common which reminded us of the Lichtenthal Allee at
Baden-Baden; old Saybrook, worthy of its name, and thrilling for its
antique shops; old Lyme, the haunt of artists, glimmering white in a
grove of elms; Flanders village--East Lyme--where all the flowers on
earth were jumbled sweetly together like happy families in every garden.
But if I did delay you thus, your poor mind would become like one of
these jumbled gardens, full of sweet things impossible to sort. Mine is
like that already; but, after all, it doesn't matter so much for me,
because Jack has promised to bring me this way once again before we go
back home. Then, if I've mixed one village with another in a kind of
mental earthquake, I can rearrange my _tout ensemble_. Impressions of
the country, however, I shall never lose or blur disastrously with those
of any other part: it is too individual, and makes too clear a picture.
Much of our way was like a private park bigger than any king or emperor
in Europe ever owned. Then, after miles of trees with blue, misty vistas
hanging between, like painted gauze curtains, we flashed suddenly out to
open spaces purple-red with fireweed, and vast, flat stretches of tawny
marshland swept with tides of colour, rainbow streaks of amethyst and
rose-topaz. The Sound was within sight and smell. Salt perfume of ocean
mingled with spicy fragrance from the sunburnt bayberry flung in thick
ruglike masses upon bare gray rock, and azure veinings of the sea, stray
among the marshes, made strong-growing water plants give out a tang that
was tonic to our nostrils.
You may think that such a picture could be sketched in colour along the
coastline of almost any country, but if so, you will be mistaken, for
all this as we saw it was extraordinarily individual and _American_.
Why, exactly, I can't define, but you will understand, if Monty
doesn't. Though you say you haven't been much in New England you know
what the soul of America is. Well, this soul, whose first (remembered)
spark came from the Indians, was brightened to living fire by the
Puritans from over the sea who called the world they found New England.
Somehow, the combination is unique, and the same curious sense of
personality runs through everything, linking all together as a golden
thread might link many different coloured beads. The cedars crowning the
hills could be only American cedars. "Joe Pye weed" (whose Indian name
is lost, but whose pinky purple colour is ever present) is so patriotic
a plant that it would perish rather than grow in foreign parts. The
ponds crusted with water-lily pads and ringed round with young trees
like children dancing hand in hand seem to sing "We are of _New_
England!" And even the apple trees--immense domed tents of green and
pink brocade--are like colonial ladies dressed in their hoop-skirted
best.
New London, on the contrary--when we came to it at last--struck us as
being like some town of England, or of Scotland. That was only a first
impression, however, and a superficial likeness. We soon began to find
out the differences, for New London was our night stop, and we had hours
before dark to criticise and admire. It hadn't been a long run, as runs
go, from New York, and at New Haven we heard motor fiends at luncheon
near us in the hotel talk of "pushing on to Boston." Just such a fiend
would Caspian be if he could, because he so hates the stops devoted to
sight-seeing; but Jack and Peter are, after all, powers behind the
throne, or, rather, behind the engines. They don't drive, yet
unostentatiously they direct less determined or less firmly
concentrated minds. Nobody except your Molly realized that we were to
spend an afternoon and night at New London because Jack Winston and
Peter Storm wished it, but so, indeed, it was. Nobody but your Molly
guessed that a sight-seeing plot was hatching against Caspian
and--incidentally--against Mrs. Shuster. Idonia Goodrich had been
carefully incited to keen interest in New London because of the Yale and
Harvard boat races, and though nothing was going on, she wanted to see
the place where such things _did_ go on. Where Idonia goes, the fickle
Larry likes to go just now, for when a good-looking girl flags him with
the signal, "I'm ready to flirt if you are!" he simply can't resist,
which means that where Idonia and Larry go, thither goeth Lily also. As
for Pat, she knows that actively seeing sights is her one hope (if any)
of escape from Caspian. Consequently she had listened with almost
unnatural interest to Jack's talk, before starting, of the principal
"features" to be sought out at our first night's stopping place.
[Illustration: map]*
Were it not for Caspian's feet, I'm afraid dear Pat wouldn't have cared
a whalebone to go and stare at the harbour because New London had been a
big whaling centre. She wouldn't have bothered with John Winthrop's
historic mill, which has never been out of use from his day to ours. She
wouldn't have rushed from Nathan Hale's schoolhouse to gape at the
Perkins Mansion, where Washington and Lafayette stayed; or if she had
she would have consented to go in the car. As it was, however, that
girl's energy was frenzied, and her exertions were rewarded at last by
the dropping out of Caspian from her train. He limped back to the
hotel, furious, leaving Pat with me and Jack, Peter, Tom, Dick, and
Harry.
Pat was a new person when she had shed him, and we ended up our
excursion with a wild, weird "movie." It _was_ fun! I never laughed so
much; and Peter Storm was like a boy. A cloud fell upon us, however, and
damped our spirits as we returned to the hotel to dress for dinner. We
knew that Caspian would be in the sulks, and that somehow Pat would be
made to pay for her pleasure.
There he sat in the big hall, where he could see us as we filed guiltily
in, very late. As a protest, he was already dressed, and looked like one
of those neat little sugar men with yellow hair, red lips, and black
coat that you see on lower middle-class wedding cakes. He held a book in
his hand, but had been talking, or trying to talk, to a big, dark,
handsome man who lolled in a neighbouring chair. In a flashing glance we
gained the impression that the big fellow was bored by Caspian and had
sought refuge from him behind a newspaper. But at sight of us Caspian
hastily stiffened into an attitude of martyred waiting, and at the same
instant the tall man jumped up with a queer exclamation. His paper
dropped. He looked as if he saw a ghost, and--that ghost was Peter
Storm!
"Mon Dieu!" or words to that effect I saw, rather than heard, him say.
Then Peter got to him in two or three gigantic strides, as if in
seven-leagued boots, and thrust his face close to that other astonished
face. What Peter said I could not catch, because he spoke in a whisper
and very fast. What the big man (bigger than Peter) said in return could
not have been caught by the ear of a fox, for he said nothing at
all--except with his eyes.
They, at first, expressed something like horror. Then they softened, or
dulled, I couldn't tell which, and suddenly it occurred to me to flash a
glance to Caspian. He was almost ill with curiosity. Pat had turned to
stare at him, too, knowing already, through the bitter experience which
had made him her fiance, that C. wanted only a weapon with which to do
Peter harm.
Certainly it did look as if Peter were desperately anxious to choke the
man into silence. He had the air of wanting to stop some irrevocable
word from being said, of urging, explaining, almost entreating. "What
_can_ it mean?" I asked myself, determined, however, to keep my faith in
the Stormy Petrel at any price.
As I thought of all sorts of things, I heard Pat say, "_I'm_ not going
to dress. It's too late, and I'm too tired. I'll go in to dinner just as
I am, if you will, Molly."
Instantly I guessed what was in her mind. The bright child was rallying
round Peter. If I hadn't been sure before that she'd fallen in love with
him, I should have been sure then! It was love that made her think
quickly and find the best way to defend him--as she had found a way
before, by sacrificing herself. She knew that, if he were left alone, Ed
Caspian would try to get hold of the stranger (whom he evidently knew)
the instant Peter and he parted. He would pump him if possible, and
Peter's secret, whatever it was, would be at the enemy's mercy.
I rose to the occasion, or, rather, I sat down on it. I subsided into
the chair close to Caspian which the man had jumped up from like a
Jack-in-a-box. Pat followed my example by plumping into a seat on Ed's
other side, and in common decency he could not bolt. "Why, yes," I
said, "I should like nothing better than an excuse to dine as I am. Mr.
Caspian is so smart, he must bear off the honours for us all."
Jack, of course, saw what we were up to, for he had seen the whole
drama--tragedy, comedy, whatever it was! British though he is, it never
takes him longer than a lightning (conductor) flash to seize any
situation in which I am concerned. But I don't need to tell you that!
You, too, have married a Britisher, and know just how much that dear old
American joke about English slowness of comprehension amounts to--unless
the creature is putting on airs!
"We'll none of us dress," said he, with a wicked gleam in his eye; the
Boys joined him; and the dapper wedding-cake figure was surrounded and
swallowed up by a wave of untidy tourists. We didn't leave him alone for
a minute, until Peter Storm and the stranger were seen returning from
their confab, and going toward the restaurant door _together_, without a
backward glance for us.
Things were thus safe for the time being. I announced that I was rested,
and would like to dine at once. Pat said that she was famished! We went
to dinner therefore--picture it!--without even washing our hands.
Peter and the stranger sat at a little table at the farthest corner of
the room. Caspian looked ready to burst with rage at being
"circumvented," and to sink into the floor with shame of his unsuitably
clad companions. As for me, I smiled at Jack a sardonic smile which
would have made a grand "close up" in the "movie" we had just seen. The
most experienced villain couldn't have improved on it.
"Say, who is that chap feeding over there with Storm?" inquired the
innocent Tom.
"That," said Caspian, "is the military attache of the Russian Embassy in
Washington. He is here on business. His name is Captain Ipanoff. He is
also a Prince."
His being "also a Prince" explained to me why Ed, our prize snob, should
have tried to lure him from his newspaper with honeyed conversation. But
it didn't explain why his eyes should start out of his head at sight of
Peter Storm.
Up to date, the thing hasn't been explained; for now, as I write to you,
it is the same night, and so far as I know, P. S. and his Prince are
still together. I don't want--at least, I don't _want_ to want--to know
anything about Peter Storm that he doesn't wish known. But Ed Caspian
will know if possible. I do wonder what the mystery _can_ be, don't you?
I shall write again almost at once, whether I have any more to tell on
this subject or not. I can't stop long in the middle of the secret--I
mean the trip!
Your very affectionate
MOLLY.
P. S. Jack says curiosity is a misunderstood virtue. Without it the
world would not have progressed. He's forgotten Pandora. But no, perhaps
not. Hope was at the bottom of her box, and we should have missed it if
she hadn't let the winged Troubles out.
XIX
PATRICIA MOORE TO ADRIENNE DE MONCOURT
_Moon Pond_,
_Newport, R. I._
MIGNONNE:
I have found waiting here a letter from my Adrienne. It has been
forwarded from Kidd's Pines. What can have happened to this poor letter
I do not know, but it has been a long time on the way. I see it is
written just after the last one, which I have had--it is two weeks now;
so it brings me not much of news except that you like the American
cousin more even than before, and a crisis draws near. All my love and
good wishes go to you, cherie. Already it must be that things are
settling themselves for you and your Marcel (I am sure he _is_ your
Marcel!), and the wishes will arrive late. Perhaps you will send me a
cable; and it may come at any time, for you will be at home with dear
Madame your mother and not with the Sisters. But I shall not really
_expect_ the message by telegram, for in France one does not send cables
as one does in America. One thinks twice. It is an important decision to
take.
As for me, all remains as when I wrote you last. I thought at first that
I could not go on being engaged, but would have to break. Now I find it
too difficult to do this, though I have not saved my poor Larry from his
sacrifice. He bears up well, but that is because we are _en
automobile_, and there are changes of scene, and nice people to make him
forget. He is wonderful about forgetting, but I fear he may collapse
when by and by he must look reality in the face. It is not always a
pretty face!
I sometimes forget, too, for a while, but it is more difficult, for a
girl cannot choose her own companions as a man can. I lie awake at night
thinking of the future, because if I am to help Larry in a big, useful
way I must marry--not just go on being engaged. Much money is to be
settled on me, and I will give all to Larry. I feel as if I should not
like to take any for myself. You and I used to say we should not let
ourselves be married off to men we could not love, as so many of the old
girls at school have done. But circumstances can be very strong. With
me, there are complications. It will not be fair to dear Larry to speak
of them. I do not see how they can arrange themselves without my
marrying. Still, I try to think of the present and not of the future. I
have this tour before me. It is not perfect, but at least I cannot be a
_Mrs._ till it is over!
Here at Newport we visit friends of Larry's, all of us except the nice
Tom, Dick, and Harry I told you of; a Senator Collinge, Mrs. Shuster's
friend; the Goodrich family, who are so large and handsome, and a family
of two who are a bride and bridegroom, and Mr. Storm. He is not at
Newport at all, though the others who are not at Moon Pond stay in a
pretty little hotel almost like a private house. It seems odd, they do
not have big hotels in this wonderful place. The rich people who have
made the new part so wonderful do not like to have tourists come and
stay if they can help it. They want Newport to belong to them, and so
it does, except the old town, which Molly Winston and her husband and I
like best of all.
Do you not think "Moon Pond" a fascinating name for a place? The pond is
in the garden of these friends where we spend two days and nights; and
in front of the large lawn, with its great clumps of blue hydrangea,
rolls the Atlantic Ocean. It _would_ be lovely to stay here, for it is a
beautiful place (a very big house built of gray shingles, soft gray like
the feathers on a mother bird's breast, and not looking too big in a
showy way, because it is rambling, with many verandas and unexpected
nooks), but they _will_ give us a dinner in celebration of being
engaged. That spoils everything. I am glad Mr. Storm will not be at the
dinner. I should not like to see his eyes. Mr. Caspian is not nice to
him, but he is better than at first, because I was very angry at some
things he did. I said I would not be engaged to a man who could be rude
to another poorer in money than himself.
Yes, I think Peter Storm must be _very_ poor in money, or he would not
go on in this situation with Mrs. Shuster, who has Mr. Caspian for one
of her best friends, yet lets him behave as he likes to her secretary.
Mr. Storm is a proud man and of a high temper. One can see that when his
eyes look like topaz fire, and his face turns red. Yet he shuts his
mouth and makes fists of his hands, and says nothing instead of hitting
or answering back. I am so sorry for him! He is the most interesting man
you could meet. But I suppose you never will meet, for he will be gone
out of my life long before you and I see each other once more--if we
ever do.
He does not like to be in a fashionable place, and Newport is perhaps
the most fashionable in this country. He came with us for the tour, as
far as New London, a big, nice town which has a river called the Thames,
like real London. Then he met a man he knew, and said he would join us
again after Newport, at Fall River, on the way to Boston, which will be
our next stop. The friend he met was rather mysterious. Or no, the way
of meeting was mysterious. It was a great surprise to them both, and Mr.
Storm took the man--a Russian Prince--off to a distance and never let
him come near us for a minute. Mr. Caspian knew the Prince to speak to,
and he would have asked him about Mr. Storm if he could, but Molly
Winston and I would not let him. If Mr. Storm has something he wishes to
keep a secret, it is his affair. But there is one thing I worry about a
little. I do not see why I may not tell you _that!_
Before I made my promise to him, Mr. Caspian was so silly as to be
jealous of Mr. Storm. He thought, like all of us, that there was some
mystery, but unlike us, he believed it was a _bad_ one. He wished to do
Mr. Storm some harm. He even threatened to hire a detective to watch
always what he did. But after we were engaged Mr. Caspian did not feel
the same. I suppose he said to himself that he was more safe. He did not
want Mr. Storm to go away, because he enjoyed being a tyrant to him, and
showing his power over me.
It was like that till New London. I was rather silly there, I am afraid,
but I was so tired of being with Mr. Caspian every minute. He seems to
squeeze out my vitality like water from a sponge! I took a revenge by
making _him_ tired--in his feet, not his head. We all left him to go
home and rest and be very cross while we enjoyed ourselves. But it is
not me he would punish for that. It is poor Peter Storm! He begins to be
jealous again as before, and I am afraid he may do the horrid thing he
has threatened to do. A word he dropped made me think of it. I wish I
could give Mr. Storm some hint to be careful. But even when I see him
again (it won't be till day after to-morrow) I shall not dare. Perhaps I
can get Molly to speak.
I can't help missing Mr. Storm when we go about seeing beautiful things.
I told you long ago I liked seeing things with him. But I keep with
Molly and Jack Winston as much as I can when we are out of doors, here
at Newport. Larry's friends are very good. They let us go about as we
like and come in when we like. Now that Mr. Storm is away, Mr. Caspian
does not worry to be with me every minute. He knows some fearfully rich
people at Newport. It is strange, isn't it, that he likes rich people
much better than poor (except Larry and me), though he used to be a
socialist and give lectures against capital? Peter Storm says that to be
a _true_ socialist is the finest thing in the world, and can save the
world from itself; but I do not think Mr. Caspian can have been that
kind, as he does not even like to talk of socialism now.
His friends here, the Hodges, live in a house which Jack Winston says
could swallow up and digest Buckingham Palace. He has made me meet them,
and they are very pleasant, but not so restful as the Langworthys, where
we stay. When the Hodges find I want to see sights, they are surprised
and laugh. It is not the fashion with people who live at Newport to see
sights. They have seen everything in the whole world, and care only for
seeing each other--the ones they know. Nobody else is worth knowing. Mr.
Caspian tries to be like that, but it seems an imitation. With the real
ones it is true, and not for effect.
It seems that our family must be very old, because everybody, even these
grandest ones, are kind to us, and think it is great fun that we keep a
hotel. Molly and Jack they like of course, because M. and J. are "great
swells."
Now, cherie, I must stop, and go for a walk with them. Molly calls it a
"potter." But you will not know what that word means!
A hundred wishes and loves! Your
PATRICE.
XX
NIGHT LETTER TELEGRAM FROM PETER STORM TO JAMES STRICKLAND
_New London._
Just missed getting into scrape here. Saved by presence of mind. You
have heard me speak of Ipanoff. Met him accidentally. He has relatives
seeing America, awaiting them New London; found me instead. Shall stay
to-morrow, letting my party go on. Meet Fall River by train. Couldn't
stand Newport. Writing you on business.
P. S.
XXI
MOLLY WINSTON TO MERCEDES LANE
_A Gorgeous Hotel in dear old Boston._
BEST MERCEDES:
I am thrilled with New England! It has got into my blood, which is of
the south. Why do we--you and I and the rest of us--dash over to Europe
before we're old enough to see much of and appreciate our own country?
Still, I'm thankful we did, or we shouldn't have met Jack or Monty.
Are you tired of travelling with me and my Lightning Conductor? You said
you couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't be; so if you've changed your mind,
you've brought this on yourself.
I didn't quite realize, even with my first warm glow of admiration, all
that New England meant, in a _concrete_ way. I realized the beauty, the
individual charm, the historic interest, but now I'm beginning to put
them together in a bouquet where one flower sets off another. Oh, dear,
I wish that not _quite_ so many things had happened before our day! It
would have been easier to sort them about a hundred and fifty years ago.
Yet, a hundred and fifty years ago there wouldn't have been an Emerson,
a Thoreau, a Hawthorne, a Longfellow, a Whittier, a Bryant, a Lowell, or
an Oliver Wendell Holmes, to say nothing of half a dozen others I'm too
excited to recall at the moment. It would have been sad to come here
before they lived and embroidered the tapestry of life with their lovely
thoughts--almost the difference between travelling on a gray day and in
clear sunshine. For New England belongs to these philosophers and poets
just as much as it belongs to the Indians and Puritans and Soldiers of
the Revolution.
Now you see what my mood is! I think Jack has inspired it, for he can
quote most of the New England writers, if not by the yard at least by
the _inch_. He says he used to learn their wit and wisdom to repeat "at
his mother's knee." I shouldn't have supposed Lady Brightelmston's knee
capable of it; but one never knows!
The last time I wrote you was at New London. I posted the letter at
Groton, I remember, because I was thinking so hard of "The Peter Storm
Mystery" that everything else went out of my head. My dear, _he stayed
behind_, with his Russian friend, leaving Pat to the mercy of Caspian!